


Very Superstitious

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Basically a new season of Stranger Things, Canon Compliant, Eleven is not dead, F/M, Gen, Hawkins' Lab Does Bad Things to Children, How Do I Tag, I mean it's Stranger Things, I will go down with this tag, I'm not kidding, I'm so sorry, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jim Hopper Deserves Better, Lots of plot, Lotsa diversity, OC driven plot, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, So many OCs, Sort of spooky, author has no idea what she's doing, literally no idea, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-08-29 03:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8473309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: Everybody knows Thirteen brings bad luck. 
or 
The one where Eleven was not the only experiment, more children are drawn into a dangerous mess with limited adult supervision, and Indiana is a good place for getting snatched into the Upside Down.





	1. Black Cats and Broken Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> *takes deep breath* I really have no idea what I'm doing with this. I've looked around on the archive and found absolutely nothing close to this concept, which isn't reassuring. However, I have a special place in my heart for original characters in an already created universe that have little to do with the pre-established plot. 
> 
> What does that mean here? Well, you won't be getting much about the Stranger Things characters we love already, but if you - like me - are ridiculously impatient and want new content, I think I've provided something that fits such a quota. 
> 
> Since I'm rambling, I'll leave you in the (semi) capable hands of Atticus, Willie Cal, Daveed, and eventually Thirteen - my Mockingbirds.

_Clarity, Indiana – 22 nd February 1984_

For a girl who equates _quantum physics_ with _light reading,_ Wilhelmina Calpurnia Jones is one of the most superstitious people on the planet.

She has a collection of lucky pennies, and carries around the second-luckiest in her pocket at all times, careful not to damage it. She never breathes when she passes a graveyard (which almost resulted in a hospital visit, once), and she never says “good bye” instead of “good night,” just in case it really does make someone die. She’s a self acclaimed triskaidekaphobiac, though her friends think she just likes saying the word, and keeps every superstition written neatly in a journal so she doesn't forget. No matter what the reason, though, Wilhelmina loves superstitions almost as much as she loves the way her full name rolls off her tongue.

(It’s fun. The consonants unfold perfectly and the vowels simply _glide.)_

Right now, Willie Cal is clutching at her battered copy of _The Feynman Lectures on Physics, volume 3,_ as she makes her way across her high school’s frigid courtyard. The February wind blows tiny, stinging icicle pricks onto her face. Her collection of dreadlocks fly out behind her like the hood of her jacket as Willie Cal tugs the fabric tighter around herself, regretting the smart comment she made to her mother that morning about the temperature. Her down coat is so appealing right now, and she can envision the way it hangs on the hook in her sitting room.

Her warm sitting room, in her equally warm house.

Willie Cal mutters a curse as she approaches her bicycle, but it’s soon lost in the wind. She rubs her hands together and sets her book in the basket, a deep frown settling over full, dark lips, and then stuffs her hands in her pockets. Her brown cheeks have turned a fiery red as she huddles in on herself for warmth, backpack presenting as a hulking figure over Willie Cal’s shoulders.

“Hurry up, hurry up, hurry _up,”_ she whispers urgently, jumping from one foot to another and sliding her hand into her skirt pocket to rub the shiny copper of her second luckiest penny. “C’mon, Daveed. Atticus. _C’mooon.”_

Willie Cal’s voice rises to a plaintive wail, and a gust of wind tears the sound away from her mouth and flings it far into the cosmos. She doesn’t have much longer to wait, though, because two boys emerge from the main door and amble down the path in front of Clarity County Senior High. Willie Cal could cry in relief.

Instead, she cups her hands around her mouth and hollers, “Could y’all _go_ any slower? Get over here!” at the top of her lungs, and judging by the way they start moving in her direction at a slightly faster pace, they heard her.

Willie Cal sighs, because the boys are still only moving a bit faster than a pair of sloths after a meal. She blows a puff of warm air on her curled hands, taking a bit of time to admire the silver varnish coating she and her brother put on the day before. If she can’t feel them properly, her fingers might as well _look_ gorgeous.

Then she stuffs them right back in her jacket pocket and hops around a bit more because _holy hell,_ it sure is freezing.

Willie Cal’s trio, better known as the Mockingbirds, are an odd bunch. They’re nothing like Clarity has ever known – a sleepy little town with a claim to diversity due to the mere existence of Willie Cal and Daveed – and most likely something the town would never see again. The three of them banded together because they were misfits: Willie Cal was loud, black, and didn’t care about anyone’s opinion, Daveed had a black mother, a Cuban father, and a mouth that didn’t stop, and Atticus was Jewish and maybe gay. By the first grade, they figured that if no one else wanted to be their friend, they’d be each others’.

They spit on it, and that was that.

And then, of course, came the revolutionary fall of fourth grade. The beginning of something radical could be pinpointed to the day when Atticus’s sister, Stella, came home, smug as could be, and announced how proud she was to be a Finch. At the time, Atticus was still called by his given name, Liam, but it’s been so long since anyone but a substitute teacher has said it that the name has practically become obsolete.

Willie Cal, Daveed, and the not-yet-christened Atticus were tossing paper airplanes made of their maths homework at each other when Stella entered with her airs and graces, tooting her own horn. Curious, they berated her with questions – which was, of course, exactly what the older girl wanted – and threatened to turn the airplanes on her if she didn’t explain what in the name of Rice Crispies was so good about being a Finch.

Stella sat the overzealous eight and nine year olds down and explained the plot of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ to her wide eyed, rapt crowd, leaving out the details she thought necessary. Later that week, all three kids had somehow finagled a copy of the book to school and had completed it by the weekend. Something about the novel was glorious, even if they didn’t quite understand the matter of Tom Robinson and Mayella Ewell.

Then they found it. A dramatic reveal, all at once, sitting in the treehouse perched among the sturdy branches of the biggest tree in Daveed’s yard. Three copies of the book lay in a triangle as the tomes’ respective children sat cross legged on wooden planks, a tin roof above their heads to protect them when it rained. The treehouse was cozy, not too small, and filled with blankets and pillows that had accumulated over the past few years.

Daveed had fallen off his pillow when he realised _it_ , and said a word that the three of them had only heard their parents say in times of distress. Wide eyed and cautious, not-yet-Atticus and Willie Cal had snapped their heads up in near-perfect unison.

Daveed laid it all out for them as sunlight streamed through the glass window to his right. Liam was a Finch. Willie Cal’s middle name was short for Calpurnia, and he was Daveed _Jeremy –_ Jeremy, just like Jem!

For a moment there had been silence: amazed, beautiful silence, because the universe works in odd ways sometimes, and coincidence was gorgeous. Then wire-rimmed glasses caught the flow of light as they slid down a boy’s angled nose –

“Atticus!” Willie Cal had exclaimed, bursting with the realisation. _“Atticus,_ of course! Look at him, doesn’t it make sense?”

The other two agreed, hesitant at first, then gaining confidence. The name would be more than applicable later – even though the nickname had been spur-of-the-moment, based on the way someone looked when dappled in sunlight and the flicker of leaves’ shadows in an autumn breeze – _Atticus_ would cling to the boy as though it were meant to be his name all along.

The Mockingbirds all knew it was ridiculous, but their group name had come about over time, and it fit. By junior high, it was just a fact: Atticus Finch, the boy who peered out at the world from behind sophisticated glasses _did_ in fact take after his namesake and served as impulse control. Daveed Alden, with his telltale puff of hair and wide smile, could talk for hours on end. Willie Cal Jones was the undisputed leader: a wild collage of eyeshadow and science, she was the sole person who had _ever_ out-talked Daveed. (Daveed always liked to clarify that this had only happened once.)

Together, they were the Mockingbirds, the oddest trio to ever grace Clarity since the quaint little place was founded in 1802, and right now, all three of them were freezing.

“You,” Willie Cal says as the boys see her discomfort at the cold and slow their speed until they’re moving at what feels like a centimetre per minute, “are absolutely incorrigible and I hate you both.” She tugs her bike out of its place snug in the rack and avoids the frigid metal as she manoevres her vehicle to a better position to mount.

“Strong language,” Atticus drawls, grinning, and in response Willie Cal swings one leg over her bicycle. Atticus and Daveed exchange frantic looks as their friend glances back at them, one eyebrow raised in a challenge. They stare back, defiant, and come to a halt in their path.

Willie Cal pushes herself into ready position, and Atticus and Daveed have to practically sprint their way to the bike rack as she pedals leisurely away from them. They don’t see her face as they grab their own bikes, wrangling them from the grasp of frosted metal bars, but both boys know it’s very smug.

Daveed takes off after Willie Cal first, and Atticus is behind him moments later, just in time to hear Daveed’s muttered but affectionate, “Asshole,” as he catches up. They’re all in a line, and Atticus loves when they bike like this, because it evokes the feeling of Elliot in _ET: The Extraterrestrial._ Atticus had loved the film, a reward for careful saving of money that resulted in cinema tickets and popcorn a few months after the movie hit the big screens.

“You’re all quiet, Atticus,” Willie Cal notes teasingly, glancing over at him as the three of them approach the downhill. She quickly turns her eyes back to the road as they begin to coast, and shouts into the wind, “Bein’ wise in class take a toll on you?”

“No!” Atticus yells back. He’d meant to be short, but the exhilaration of rushing down the hill always thrills him, whether it’s the first time he’s done it or the millionth. “I’m thinking! You could benefit from trying it out sometime.”

Daveed shouts an appropriately reverent, _“Ooooooooooh!”_ at the mock insult, wind whipping at his curls, and Willie Cal rolls her eyes as the terrain evens out and the bikes’ wheels spin less furiously. She tosses her head and runs a hand through her hair as though she’s tired with the world. Fourteen and a half is certainly old enough for that sort of attitude.

“Really though,” Willie Cal says, sobering, and in her eyes a genuine flash of concern passes with the shadows of neighboring trees. “Y’good, Atticus?”

“I’m good,” Atticus says, nodding, and all three of them shut up and ride their bikes.

It’s nice, to pedal home like this – they’re going to Willie Cal’s house today – with their backpacks resting snugly on their shoulders, scenery whizzing by. After a while they fall into a comfortable rhythm of _push, breathe, adjust,_ the way they always do, side by side. Atticus would want to close his eyes if it didn’t pose the threat of riding his bike into a rock.

The Mockingbirds are crossing from the gravel road to solid pavement, and Willie Cal’s house is right down the street. The sun is just starting to set, a giant yellow ball in the middle of the sky. The horizon is splashed with a bucket of orangey-pink watercolours, mixing with the baby blue sky and absorbed by the cotton clouds.

“Look how nice the sky is,” Atticus remarks, gazing up at it, and Daveed has also given nature his daily stamp of approval. He’s about to open his mouth to vocalise it when Willie Cal stops abruptly ahead of them. Daveed almost slams into Atticus, who almost slams into Willie Cal, whose feet are flatly on the ground.

“Sky do something to you?” Daveed tries uncertainly, and Atticus twists back to frown at him. Atticus’s face mirrors Daveed’s own confusion, and both boys walk awkwardly around the frozen Willie Cal with their bikes between their legs to see what’s gotten her so frazzled.

_“Shit,”_ Willie Cal whispers, fingers clamped around the handlebars, and the other Mockingbirds try not to stare at the sight a little way down the road. It’s hard.

“Shit,” says Daveed, matter of fact, blinking once or twice as though to make sure that it’s real.

“Shit,” Atticus murmurs, and he feels a little jolt, because it’s the first time he’s ever said _shit_ and he’s pretty sure that he likes the sound of it on his lips.

Across the road a child stands dressed in a hospital gown. From here, none of the Mockingbirds can tell whether they’re a boy or a girl, but the kid is slender under the formless sheet – skinny, really, if you take the time to look at their wan arms and stringy legs.

The kid is sharp all over, elbows angular and knees knobby. Despite the fact that, judging by the stranger’s height, they’re probably around the Mockingbirds’ ages, the child opposing them could be rather young. It’s not the dark eyes, containing a steady defiant fire – no, those could be age old. Rather, it’s the _way_ that the kid looks out at the world, including the Mockingbirds, as though it’s something they’ve never seen before.

The Mockingbirds _are_ staring. The kid stares back.

Slowly, it dawns on Atticus what’s gotten Willie Cal like this, a state somewhere between _shit_ and turning on her heels to bolt away. It _isn’t_ the eyes, though they’re unsettling in their penetrating stare. Atticus would flinch if he wasn’t so entranced. It isn’t the kid’s hair, either, or lack of it – a stubby collection of what might become curls is cropped close to warm brown skin. It’s not even the stranger’s close proximity to Willie Cal’s house, which is freaking Atticus out just a bit.

The kid is standing beneath a green ladder with a black cat held in those skinny arms. At their feet is broken glass, and even though Atticus is _sure_ it’s just the remnants of a window, the pieces reflect the orange glow of the sunset accusingly. It’s every superstition that Atticus and Daveed have laughed about with Willie Cal, and they’re all simultaneously coming back to haunt her.

Atticus dismounts his bike and wheels the vehicle next to his side; the other Mockingbirds do the same. Willie Cal slides a hand into her skirt pocket and pinches the second-luckiest penny between two fingers.

“Shit.”

* * *

_Hawkins’ Lab; Hawkins, Indiana – 22 nd February, 1984_

2nd Gen. Experiment Serial No. 155724 drafted participant 012 released into control group. 2nd Gen. Experiment Serial No. 155724 drafted participant 013 released into variable group.

1st Gen. Experiment Serial No. 155725 blind participants 001 – 008 tagged and released. Casualties – 2; injuries – 7. Blind participants 001 – 004 released to control group. Blind participants 005 – 008 trackers indicate self administration to variable group.

Whereabouts of 2nd Gen. Experiment Serial No. 155724 drafted participant 011 remain unknown.

REPORT SUBMITTED T. Farland, 22/2/84, 1300

REPORT AUTHORISED J. Lawson; scientific next of kin to M. Brenner, 22/2/84, 1332


	2. Now You See Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to my odd, out-of-line story has been more than what I could've hoped - thank you. :)

_Clarity, Indiana – 22 nd February 1984 _

The girl introduces herself as Thirteen. Willie Cal doesn't know if it’s possible to be unluckier.

Strictly, the girl doesn't introduce herself at all. After the initial standoff, the other Mockingbirds slowly coax Willie Cal across the street, wheeling her bike at her side. The stranger’s eyes are wary as the other three approach, and silence crackles like a flickering lightbulb between the four of them.

“Hi,” Daveed says finally, after he can't take the deafening silence anymore. They’re close enough to each other that soft, feminine features shine through the sharp edges and Daveed is _pretty_ sure the kid was a girl.

The girl doesn't reply at all, though, just stands with the feline in her arms as she stares at the Mockingbirds. Willie Cal tries to take a step back, but is nudged forward by Atticus, who is absolutely not hiding behind her.

“I'm Daveed,” says Daveed, trying again for a tentative opening. He gestures to the Mockingbirds. “These are my friends. Atticus and Willie Cal. What’s your name?”

Again he’s greeted with silence, and Daveed glances back at the other two questioningly. _‘Do you think she can talk?’_ Atticus mouths, and Daveed shrugs. _‘Ask her if she can talk.’_

“You ask her!” Daveed hisses under his breath, and as nervous as she may be, Willie Cal has no time for their nonsensical bickering.

“Y’all can cool it, _I’ll_ ask,” she announces, and steps forward to push past Daveed. She looks up into the girl’s face, just now realising that the lanky newcomer is taller than all the Mockingbirds. “Can you talk?”

Wavering, the newcomer bites her lip and trembles, an answer hovering on the outskirts of her figure. _“Please_ let go of that damn cat,” Willie Cal snaps suddenly, and as though obeying is a reflexive response, the girl opens her arms. The animal scampers down with a hiss, and is gone. Willie Cal is a bit calmer now. “Right. So _can_ you talk?” she asks, and the stranger nods hesitantly. “Okay. Good.” She twists around to shoot Daveed and Atticus a dirty look, as though to say, _I never asked to deal with the bad luck._ They return Willie Cal’s glare with sheepish smiles and she sighs. “Can y’tell us your name, then? You know ours. Like a trade.”

The girl pauses, shifting her weight from foot to foot before extending her right arm to Willie Cal. “Yes. That’s your arm,” Willie Cal says, unimpressed despite herself. “Your _name,_ what’s your name? _I’m_ Willie Cal. _You_ are…”

Slender fingers, as long and thin as the rest of the girl’s body, tug up the scratchy material of the hospital gown. Her palm is face up, the blue veins of the girl’s wrist snaking underneath brown skin. Willie Cal’s eyes travel up the exposed arm, wispy hair raised in the cold. Her vision catches about halfway to the stranger’s elbow, where three black numbers are inked neatly into the skin: _013._

Willie Cal swallows hard and tries not to scream. “I don't understand,” she says, voice surprisingly even. “You have a _tattoo?”_

The girl uses the other hand to tap her forearm, pressing little divots beneath the numbers with dirt encrusted nails. Then she slowly brings her hand to rest over her chest, right below her collarbone, as if to say _me_. Willie Cal feels a terrified, ugly jolt.  

“You,” she says, unwilling to speak the word – _name –_ Thirteen aloud in this place. It _reeks_ of bad luck. Thirteen only nods, and lifts one corner of her mouth as though waiting for a reward.

“The hell’s going on?” Daveed is brave enough to step forward, eyes darting between Willie Cal and Thirteen, pausing only for a moment at the numbers and the crescent moons under them. He frowns at the sight of them, looking back up at Thirteen (as the shortest of the Mockingbirds, he and Thirteen stand what feels like kilometres apart) with appropriate wariness. “Does she talk or what?”

“Can. Don’t think she will,” Willie Cal says gravely, nodding at their mute visitor. Tugging Daveed to the side, out of hearing range of Thirteen, she hisses in his ear, “Those numbers – they’re a _tattoo._ That’s her _name._ Thirteen is her goddamn _name._ Thirteen!” Willie Cal pulls away, her wide eyes part drama and part genuine shock. “I don’t know where the hell she comes from, but I want her back.”

Daveed glances over towards where Thirteen is standing, arms dangling limply at her side. She looks otherworldly with her shaved head and flowered hospital gown, but not in a good way. Rather, she’s reminiscent of a ghost – a Halloween spectre from somewhere not of this world. Daveed tears his gaze away from Thirteen but can still feel her eyes burning little holes into the material of his jacket.

“Maybe she’s lost,” someone else supplies, and both Willie Cal and Daveed nearly jump before they realise it’s just Atticus. He pushes up his wire rimmed glasses with one finger and exhales steadily, pursing his lips. “Or a runaway. There’s a million reasons why she could be here, aren’t there?” Atticus is the only one who hasn’t engaged Thirteen yet, instead choosing to watch from afar. “She might need help.”

“Then let the police deal with that!” Willie Cal snaps in return. “I don’t care what you say. Whether you’re superstitious or not, finding a freaky girl underneath a ladder with a black cat in her arms is a _classic_ case of bad luck. Even if you don’t believe in it, everyone _knows_ that’s what it _means._ The glass. The number. It’s not just a coincidence – things like that don’t just _happen.”_

Atticus has been regarding her with his even stare, nodding in the right places, while Daveed looks sceptical. “She could be a prank,” he says. “Y’know. Like a joke. Someone knows Willie Cal believes in that bad luck ‘n those sort of things, so they had her –” he jerks his thumb behind him, “– dress up. Doodled on the numbers in Sharpie. To scare us. Thought it was funny. I mean, right assholes, but not serious.”

“Then the tattoo will wash off,” Willie Cal suggests, catching on, and Daveed nods. “We can take her inside, call her gang or whoever the hell thought this was funny, and get on with homework.” The determined set to her jaw says that only Daveed could talk her out of this plan, and _only_ with a half hour lecture.

“It’s Friday,” Atticus points out, and Willie Cal folds her arms triumphantly.

“Great Atticus Finch, doesn’t wanna do homework.” She grins, and turns around to face Thirteen. Eerily, the girl hasn’t moved at _all –_ if not for the steady rise and fall of her chest, Willie Cal wouldn’t have been sure that she was even alive. “Thirteen,” she says firmly, “the Mockingbirds have decided that we’re gonna take you inside. You’re gonna tell us your real name, and then you’re gonna go home. You’re not gonna bother us with all of this bad luck stuff anymore. Got it?”

Thirteen bites her lip and looks down at her feet. Willie Cal raises her voice. _“Got it?”_

“Willie Cal,” Atticus whispers sharply, stepping on her toe to cement the severity of the reprimand. “Whoever she is, you oughta be nice.”

“I don’t oughta do nothing,” Willie Cal whispers back, but as Thirteen is nodding, Willie Cal figures the other girl has gotten the message. “C’mon.”

Daveed, Atticus, and Willie Cal troop towards the Jones’ house; Thirteen follows some ways behind with her head tucked obediently down. If this is a joke, this girl is a good actor, and it’s unsettling as _hell._ Willie Cal holds the door open as the other three file in and for a split second it feels as though they’ve done this for every single day of their lives. The moment is gone as soon as it came, though, and Willie Cal shuts the door behind her with a _click._

Thirteen is looking around in barely disguised wonder as Daveed leads her to the kitchen, chattering endlessly about something or another. Atticus lingers behind to wait for Willie Cal, like the good friend he is. The boys have dumped their backpacks on the floor already, and Willie Cal does the same.

“I’m sure it’s just a prank,” Atticus says evenly, in a reassuring manner that makes his eyes smile but not his mouth. Willie Cal has no idea how he’s perfected it, but is constantly jealous. Atticus makes everyone feel at ease in a way she only hopes to accomplish. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not Friday the 13th or anything.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” Willie Cal shudders as the two of them head into the kitchen, where Thirteen is nodding every so often at Daveed’s relentless flow of words. “That would be hell on wheels.”

Atticus chuckles (it’s one of the things that makes Willie Cal believe he’s really an old man). “Let’s get this over with, then.”

She nods, wondering why she’s quite so bothered, and worms her way between Daveed and Thirteen. He’s currently in the middle of a spiel on apples, and how the ones from New York taste better, and that he knows this because of his relatives that live upstate. Only Daveed can talk about apples for a solid five minutes and keep his audience from falling asleep.

“Arm,” Willie Cal demands, then adds, “please,” at Atticus’s sharp look. Thirteen obliges, flinching when Willie Cal touches her forearm. She frowns, meeting the girl’s dark eyes. They look hunted, like an animal, and Willie Cal quickly glances away. There’s something in them that she’s never seen before and never wants to again. Even before she turns on the faucet, a gut feeling says that this is more than Sharpies and high school pranks. No one would go this far to torment a girl’s superstitions.

The numbers show no sign of budging after Willie Cal takes a soaked paper towel and rubs at it until the skin starts to turn red. She can feel Thirteen attempt to withdraw, and then is guilty for doing this to the other girl in the first place. (Damn Atticus. It’s probably his fault somehow). It’s odd, but even though Willie Cal doesn’t want to believe that that freaky Thirteen is actually genuine, she can’t help but be sympathetic. Besides, it’s not only that the numbers are still present – they’re as clear as they were when Willie Cal stared at them on the pavement moments before.

“So who is she?” Daveed says finally, breaking into the silence that’s fallen over Willie Cal and Thirteen. “What’s her name?”

Willie Cal shakes her head. “I think it _is_ Thirteen,” she says uncertainly, as though she doesn’t want to believe herself. Edging closer to her friends, she leaves Thirteen in the middle of the kitchen. “She’s probably lost. We need to get her out of my house, and _fast._ My mum is gonna freak the hell out when she sees this creepy girl in our kitchen.”

“Then where did she _come from?”_ Daveed asks in frustration, gesturing over at where Thirteen is looking at a salt shaker as though it’s an alien artefact. “We can’t send her back there if we don’t know where we’re sending her back _to.”_

“Let the social worker figure that out,” Willie Cal says, folding her arms. “I ain’t taking responsibility for her. She’s not mine. Whoever the hell she is, she’s weird and she needs to go home.” This is beyond superstition – this is genuine fear. A girl, claiming to be named after a number, has appeared in front of Willie Cal’s house with no context. Furthermore, she doesn’t seem to understand _anything_ that’s going on in daily life, demonstrated by trying to put her fingers into the toaster oven.

Atticus’s attention has been caught, though, and he nudges Daveed so that the other boy glances up. “Guys…” Willie Cal follows their gazes to where Thirteen is standing resolutely in front of them. Her stance is tough and offensive, and she suddenly looks more than the meek girl in a hospital gown that the Mockingbirds had initially presumed.

With definite, clear effort, Thirteen takes a deep breath and strings together five words with difficulty. They come slowly, with pauses after each, as though she’s unsure of the consequences of her actions. “I,” Thirteen says evenly, _“Will… not…go… back.”_

* * *

 

In the next hour and a half, homework completely forgotten, the Mockingbirds try to get any other information out of their mostly silent new companion. Who _is_ she? Why won't she go back to ‘the place?’ What happened in her old home? Why won't she just _talk?_ Nod for yes, shake for no – will that work?

Thirteen says “no” twice throughout the session, while the Mockingbirds (especially Daveed) keep up a steady stream of questions. What the three of them gather by five o’clock is that Thirteen escaped from a vague bad place where they hurt her. She never specifies who “they” are, but the way she says the word makes Atticus shudder.

The Mockingbirds promptly take it upon themselves to keep Thirteen away from this bad place, although Willie Cal requires a bit of persuasion. The boys can tell she’s already sympathetic to Thirteen, though, and Daveed only gives a five-minute mini-filibuster before Willie Cal relents. Daveed grins, and then immediately proposes that Willie Cal be the one who houses Thirteen for however long she’ll be staying in Clarity.

Willie Cal clearly wants to put her foot down, but thinks it over and realises that this is the only logical option. The boys will be violently slaughtered if a _girl_ has been found stowing away in one of their houses, while Willie Cal will only be grounded for life. It’s not a very good alternative, but she can't risk one of the Mockingbirds being killed. It just won't do.

“Let’s go up to my room. Bring your homework,” Willie Cal says, already halfway across the room and heading for the stairs. “We can set up a place for Thirteen and get something done before Mum gets home.” There’s a general affirmative consensus as the other Mockingbirds and Thirteen follow Willie Cal up the staircase, down the hall, and through a bright blue door.

Thirteen taps it and smiles as they pass through, and Willie Cal reminds herself that this girl is bad luck. If not, she’d definitely be flattered that Thirteen seems to like the colour – Willie Cal and her brother Luka painted it themselves.

The walls of Willie Cal’s bedroom are another, softer blue, with a single bed somewhere towards the left corner. A boom box lies next to her nightstand; next to it on the little table is a lamp. The room is cluttered but homey, with fuzzy blankets strewn around and clippings of physics articles decorating the walls. Willie Cal’s hardwood desk is the centrepiece, with makeup brushes tossed haphazardly on the left side and a stack of novels on the right. The room is a good indicator of her personality, from the science posters to the stuffed polar bear on the bed. Thirteen has been staring at the scene ahead of her with wide eyes as she takes it all in, childish amazement painting her features.

Daveed has thrown himself on the floor with his binders and has kidnapped one of Willie Cal’s textbooks. He’s currently taking up as much space as humanly possible as he lies in his stomach, pulling a pencil out from behind his ear – it was previously hidden somewhere among his collection of curls. “Music, Willie Cal?” he asks with a grin, and she obliges, pressing buttons on the boombox.

Thirteen has tentatively made her way into the room when the synthesised intro of the cassette tape starts to play and she jolts, startled. “It’s just music,” Willie Cal reassures, with the closest thing she’s had to a smile for the other girl all day. “Like… words that sound nice, y’know? This is rap. Which means this guy is gonna start saying words to a rhythm soon. You’ll see.” A pause, then Willie Cal offers, “You can… come in, y'know. Look around. Make yourself at home. Since you're gonna be staying here, after all.”

Thirteen smiles, both corners of her mouth lifting now and making little creases in her cheeks. “You look good when you smile,” Willie Cal blurts, and Thirteen ducks her head, pleased.

“Thanks,” she says in a near whisper, and both of them know it isn't just for the compliment.

As Willie Cal turns back to her homework and her Mockingbirds, she figures that there are far worse situations to be in. A gravelly voice floats through the speaker as she takes out a piece of lined paper; Daveed and Willie Cal mutter along in practised synchronism. Atticus is taking notes on a book for English class, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose. If not for Thirteen, it’s just a normal Friday afternoon.

It will stay normal for the rest of the day, throughout dinner, and only gets a little awkward when the Mockingbirds sneak food up to their guest. Aside from the blip on the radar when a sound comes from Willie Cal’s supposedly empty room – Daveed comes up with a lightning fast explanation that no one really understands – they’ve all put their initial shock behind them – even Willie Cal.

 Atticus, too, is tentative at first, but when Thirteen is found sitting cross legged on Willie Cal’s bed, Atticus’s book in her lap, initial misgivings fade. He tries to discuss it with her, and though he has little success in engaging Thirteen to speak herself, she clearly understands what he’s saying. Atticus hands her his battered copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ with a smile before he leaves.

Daveed has been talking a lot, as usual, and his reaction to a strange new girl in their midst is to act as though she’s been there all along. Atticus remarks at some point that Daveed and Thirteen got along remarkably well. Willie Cal laughs and responded that he has someone to listen to him now. (Atticus is absolutely not even a little bit jealous, because it was absolutely not his job to listen to Daveed).

The boys head out around eight thirty, and Willie Cal finds herself filling Daveed’s role. She talks about absolutely nothing as she helps make a little fort for Thirteen to sleep in. “….basically, don't let my mum see you, she’ll freak,” Willie Cal is saying as she piles up a blanket. “But if no one’s around, you can do whatever. We’ll feed you, don't worry.” Tossing a pillow onto the nest, Willie Cal puts her hands on her hips and admires her work. “There we go.”

“Thank you,” says Thirteen again, softly, and smiles.

Willie Cal waves her hand and shrugs. “Don't mention it. Can I trade you food for a couple of words?” A beat, and she elaborates. “Y'know, like I give you stuff and you do a little talking. You don't have to, but…”

Thirteen nods. Willie Cal grins. “Sweet. Okay, what’s your favourite colour, then?” It’s an instinctive, get-to-know-you question used on the first day of every school year. Her own favourite – teal – pops into her head as easily as saying her own name. But Thirteen goes back to wavering, and mirrors Willie Cal’s shrug from moments before.

“It’s not hard,” Willie Cal encourages. “Like… some people like green, because it’s springy. Or pink, ‘cause it’s all… warm and stuff. Or orange, because of the sunset. Or… yellow! Because it’s happy.” Willie Cal points to the illustration of a smiling sun on her wall and is about to go on when Thirteen interrupts.

“Yellow,” she says firmly. For a moment she looks as though she’s going to elaborate, but keeps her mouth closed. Willie Cal studies her for a minute, and then nods.

“Yellow. Cool. You can wear my yellow pyjamas,” she offers, since it’s getting late, and Thirteen nods. Willie Cal figures she’s going to have to get used to this near silence as she stands and roots through a drawer, tossing Thirteen a canary yellow nightgown. It’s soft and good for February nights, and Thirteen rubs her hands over the material. “You can change, since we’re both girls. I won't look.”

Willie Cal turns around as though to prove it, standing stoically with her back to Thirteen. When she turns back around, the dress has been slipped over the other girl’s head. Her hospital gown lays discarded on the floor. “Suits you,” says Willie Cal, and Thirteen glances down shyly. “Really it does. Little short, but you look nice.”

Thirteen doesn't seem to know how to take the compliment, just nods again and heads for the nest Willie Cal has built. Willie Cal looks at her for a moment and shakes her head. “Night, Thirteen,” she says, and is rewarded with a little tug on one side of the girl’s mouth.

It could be worse, this situation. Much worse. As she drifts to sleep, Willie Cal could swear that she hears Thirteen whisper, _“Happy.”_

 

_Clarity, Indiana – 23 rd February 1984_

 

There is literally no way this situation could be worse. Atticus is filled with an ugly, blind terror when he comes upon Hannah’s room, door flung open, blankets in disarray. This isn't like his little sister – unlike Stella, Hannah Finch is the neatest person on the face of the earth. Her bedroom is never kept anything less than absolutely pristine, and Atticus knows for a fact that nothing internal has changed. Last night, while helping Hannah put a Band-Aid on a cut, the room had been just as perfect as always.

There is something incredibly wrong here. Atticus can tell by the books strewn on the ground, a former stack of papers spilled over Hannah’s floor. “Mom?” Atticus yells, staring at the place where his sister should be sleeping. “Mom! Where’s Hannah?”

Mrs. Finch comes down the hallway, urgency echoing in her footsteps. Atticus turns to face her and tries not to look absolutely terrified. “She was with you, right?” he asks, because that’s the only reasonable possibility. Hannah _has_ to be alright.

The notion shatters when his mother's face shutters to a close and she shakes her head. “She was in her room all night,” Mrs. Finch says, and Atticus rocks back on his heels.

“Shit.”

“Atticus!”

Tears are welling up in his eyes and Atticus wraps his arms around himself. “We’ve gotta check for her somewhere. Maybe she’s hiding.” Wind blows through Hannah’s open window – no, the _broken_ window. Both Finches spot it at the same time and for a moment the world lingers on the realisation, hinged on a turning point that no one expected. For a moment, Atticus thinks of Thirteen and the broken glass at her feet.

“Atticus,” Mrs. Finch says quietly, and he realises he’s been staring at the window in a state of jaw-dropped shock. “We’ll find her. Maybe she _is_ hiding.” Mrs. Finch smiles and Atticus nods mutely, wondering if she can sense how desperately _wrong_ this entire situation is.

“I – yeah. I'll be – I’ll be in my room,” he stammers, and for a moment he doesn't feel like Atticus Finch at all. He pushes up his glasses and pushes past his mother and moments later is pushing buttons on Stella’s phone. Atticus winds the chord around his finger and, after a moment’s thought, dials the Jones’ household.

“Hi, you’ve reached the Jones residence, this is Wilhelmina Calpu-”

“Willie Cal,” Atticus interrupts, a thousand words on the tip of his tongue. “Hannah – you haven't seen Hannah, have you? She’s –” he pauses, swallows hard, takes a deep, shuddering breath. “She just… disappeared.”

There’s silence on the end of the phone, and when Willie Cal speaks again, she sounds much more subdued. “Atticus… my brother’s gone too.”

 

_Hawkins' Lab Telephone Transcript 23/2/84 0945_

D. Robin: Mrs. Finch, please –

I. Finch: No! No, I will not calm down, my girl is missing.

D. Robin: You were made aware of the risks of housing a variable from moment you signed the contract.

I. Finch: You never told me that my baby would be part of your experiment.

D. Robin: We warned that there would be consequences.

I. Finch: These are not the ‘consequences’ you implied, Doctor Robin. I was told that they would be minor at their worst –

D. Robin: Depending on the severity of the injury, Hannah will be kept in the nest rather than become first –

I. Finch: Stop talking about her like she’s a – a thing! She’s a real girl! And she might be dead!

D. Robin: If so, Hawkin’s Lab offers our condolences and you will be reimbursed, make no mistake.

I. Finch: I don't want to be reimbursed for my _child._

D. Robin: You have signed a legally binding contract that entails the price you will receive for any casualties directly involved with Hawkin’s National Laboratory.

I. Finch: I don't have to abide by that anymore. I know enough to go after Hannah myself. I can and will take matters into my own hands if I see fit.

D. Robin: Is that a threat, Mrs. Finch?

I. Finch: And if it is?

D. Robin: The reimbursement money will be divided among your living children.

[Isabella Finch has disconnected.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always lovely. :)


	3. Lucky Penny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear - many sorries for not updating in a million years, lol. Updates should be once a month now, on the 15th. I'll try my hardest to do so *crosses fingers*. Til then! (ps - Willie Cal's awesome mom is awesome.)

_Hawkins’ Lab, Hawkins, Indiana – 23 rd February, 1984 _

 

Previously unknown variables and variable groups C1 through C8 are as follows: C1 – L. Finch [m], W. Jones [f], D. Alden [m]. W. Jones [f] is currently housing 013; all have appeared to form a connection with 013.

C2 – H. Finch [f]; C3 – L. Jones [m]; C4 –  J. Russell [m] C5 – T. Foster [f] C6 – F. Graham [f] C7 – R. Miller [m] C8 – E. Woods [f].

Tracker indicates 013 is exhibiting elevated levels of dopamine and serotonin, displays no desire to access skill set. Skill set has not been accessed since 20/2/84, 2 days prior to release in variable habitat.

Variable group C1 must be eliminated or used to access skill set.

SUBMISSION PROPOSED N. Butler, 23/2/84, 0800

SUBMISSION ACCEPTED J. Lawson, scientific next-of-kin to M. Brenner, 23/2/84, 0900

* * *

 

_Clarity, Indiana – 23 rd February, 1984_

Over the course of the day, the four teenagers learn that the disappearances were not isolated instances. There’s a general sense of hysteria that’s descended over Clarity, Indiana, and the Mockingbirds are hardly exempt.

They gathered at Willie Cal’s house, so she wouldn't have to try and sneak Thirteen anywhere, and are sitting in her room. It’s a sight eerily reminiscent of the day before, when they were laughing and chatting and reciting rap as fast as they could. Even Daveed is uncharacteristically silent as they all stare at each other, and even stranger is that Thirteen is the one to break the spell.

“They did it,” she says, and even though her words are soft, Thirteen speaks resolutely. Three pairs of eyes are on her at once, prickling against her skin. There is no question that the _they_ Thirteen has just mentioned is the same _they_ who control the bad place she came from.

Before the Mockingbirds can question, Thirteen laces her fingers together and continues. “They sent the monsters after me.” It’s the longest thing they’ve heard her say in the past two days, and there’s a pause in which the others wait for her to continue. When there are no more words, the others deem it suitable to start asking questions. One is on the tip of all their tongues, but it takes Daveed to voice it.

“Who are the monsters?” he asks in an appropriately reverent tone, hushed and serious. His warm brown eyes are alight with a strange intensity. It’s not quite excitement – after all, Hanna Finch and Luka Jones have disappeared in the middle of the night – but it contains a promise of drama and adventure. Daveed Alden, after fourteen years, has mastered words in every one of their forms.

“They take people,” Thirteen whispers, tone suddenly trembling, and her eyes unfocus as though lost in memory. “The monsters, they –” Daveed feels a sudden flash of guilt as Thirteen wraps her hands around the middle, shaking. He glances towards Atticus, helpless, with confusion and sympathy in his eyes. Words are his division, not action, and Daveed is pretty sure that Thirteen won’t register anything he says.

Atticus takes over. It’s the way the Mockingbirds function; they’re a cohesive unit. Where one lacks, the other is strong. Together, they’re perfect, and Atticus knows exactly what he should do. “Thirteen,” he says soothingly, but words are kept to a minimum. He stretches out a hand, gentle and tentative, as though waiting for her to make the other end of the connection. Tapping on her arm, Atticus keeps the contact light and himself in her field of vision for reassurance.

Almost immediately, Thirteen clamps down with a vice-like grip around Atticus’s wrist, and slowly she comes to. He can see the shine of unshed tears in her eyes but doesn’t mention it, just turns his hand palm up underneath hers. Daveed is talking again. “…It’s a lovely February day in Clarity, Indiana. You’re with the Mockingbirds in Willie Cal’s room. We’ve managed to get the temperature above freezing and nature is just now remembering that the sun exists.” Thirteen focuses on Daveed, and he grins. “You good?”

Thirteen repeats the word as though she’s unsure of its spot in this context. “Good?”

“Yeah,” says Daveed, and the ball is in his court again. He’s right back in his element, and sends Atticus a grateful smile as the other boy retreats, pushing up his glasses. “Y’know. When you’re good, it means that you feel okay. That you’re happy.”

“Happy,” muses Thirteen, then follows immediately with, “Yellow.” The other Mockingbirds miss Willie Cal’s smile. She didn’t expect Thirteen to remember her little explanation, but apparently her love for yellow has stuck – Thirteen shyly requested a pale gold sweater that morning, and is wearing it now.

“Like yellow,” Daveed agrees. “So, Thirteen, you good?”

She pauses, and thinks about it. “I’m good,” she says finally, and the corners of her mouth hitch upwards in the way the others are coming to expect. With a glance, they decide not to ask about the monsters again.

With their primary resource compromised, it takes little discussion for the Mockingbirds to decide that their next stop should logically be the library. It’s not a coincidence anymore, and it’s not a joke: real people are actually missing. Their own knowledge won’t be believed by authorities, so the four kids have a moral obligation to use what they can and solve the mystery of monsters and missing people.

After explaining that libraries are places with books where you can get information, and explaining that books are pieces of paper filled with words, Thirteen is properly equipped for the day. She borrows Willie Cal’s fourth luckiest penny, as she sees the other girl slip the shiny copper into her own pocket, and is immediately curious. Willie Cal gives her a penny and a green hat with a yellow bobble in case it gets cold, but dubs the sweater as enough protection against the frigid air. “Ain’t gonna be able to fit anything over that sweater, anyway,” Willie Cal says decisively as the four of them head down the stairs. “Mum! The boys and I are going to the library!”

Almost immediately, Mrs. Jones appears to block their path. Thirteen is crouched behind the three Mockingbirds as they form a sort of wall to keep her from the woman’s sight. “I should think not,” she says severely, eyes blazing. “Willie Cal, with people out there, you ain’t safe. All three of you. I’m amazed you boys were even allowed to come over by yourselves. It’s _dangerous.”_

“But _Momma,”_ Willie Cal complains, using her wheedling voice. “It’s daytime. We’ll be safe. We’ve got our bikes, and that’s faster than anybody running. ‘Sides, the library’s not too far, and we’ll be back _extra_ early. Three o’clock. And we’ll… take the walkie talkie!” she proclaims, spotting it on the table and sending Daveed a _help_ glance. “Right? We’re big kids. Put together we’re like seventeen feet tall and thirty sommat years old.”

Luckily for them, Mrs. Jones is nodding along, though concern sticks in the lines of her face as she says, “Alright. No farther than the library, and be back by _two thirty.”_

“Momma!”

“Two fifteen.”

“No, no, we’ll do two thirty,” Daveed cuts in before Willie Cal can make it any worse. “That’ll work. We’ll have more than enough time, right, guys?” He plows on before the others can answer. “Thanks, Mrs. J. We’ll see you then.”

The woman’s brow creases and she sighs, shutting her eyes and looking very tired for a moment. “I’ll see you soon.”

As she walks away, Thirteen rises silently and taps Atticus’s shoulder. “Good?” she whispers, and he nods, giving her a thumbs up. Thirteen pats the bobble on top of her hat, but makes no further movement before the group starts moving down the stairs. As promised, Daveed snatches up the walkie talkie, while Willie Cal and Atticus shield Thirteen from view.

Willie Cal feels an odd pang that this adventure isn’t one she’ll be able to share with her brother, and glances down at her nails. Was it really just two days ago that he’d sat down and helped her paint a coating of silver onto the hand she couldn’t? Was it _really_ just the night before that Luka had been reprimanded for helping Daveed make armpit fart noises at the dinner table? It’s only been a few hours, but Willie Cal misses him like a physical thing. It’s not the time he’s been gone that hurts, but the notion that monsters have taken him and Luka might not be coming back.

“Shit,” Daveed is saying as Willie Cal shakes herself out of a down spiral of negative thoughts wondering why she believes Thirteen’s pieced together story in the first place. She shakes herself out of the notion and glances over at him.

“What’ja do?”

“We’ve only got three bikes,” Daveed reminds her, and Willie Cal is about to ask why that’s a problem when she remembers the girl she’s just been pondering.

Willie Cal blows out a puff of air and juts out a hip, all attitude. “Shit,” she remarks, and can see the reprimand of _language_ dancing behind Atticus’s eyes. “Who’s she gonna ride with, then?”

“What does ‘shit’ mean?” Thirteen interrupts, her pronunciation surprisingly delicate, and it’s Atticus who barks out a laugh. As Willie Cal raises her hands as though to relinquish any involved responsibility in cursing, Daveed sighs and scratches his head.

“Uh… it’s a word,” he says vaguely, “and you say it when bad things are happening. Like, if Willie Cal’s mom found you in her house or something, you’d say ‘shit,’ because things are… the opposite of good. If I ask you if you’re good, and you’re not good, then you can say, ‘No, things are shit.’ And it means that things are bad.”

Thirteen seems to accept it, but Daveed’s just remembered something else. “Oh! And it’s a curse word, which means you can’t say it around adults. They hate it when kids curse for some reason. That’s okay. We all do it anyway.”

Thirteen nods, struggling for a proper word. “Sweet,” she says finally, echoing Willie Cal from the night before, and then, “Thanks.” As though it were decided all along, she hops onto the back of Willie Cal’s bike, and the four of them head off.

The Mockingbirds go slower than normal, just in case Thirteen is in danger of freaking out again, and it takes them about ten minutes to get to the library. The four kids’ cheeks are a ruddy red from the cold, and it’s a nice feeling. They’re nearly out of breath and the Mockingbirds are grinning. Even Thirteen seems to have access to the giddy post-bike ride emotion, and has both corners of her mouth curved up when they dismount the bicycles, wheel them into the rack, and lock them up.

“You’ve gotta be quiet in the library,” Daveed stage whispers to Thirteen, as though that’ll be a problem for her. “Or else –” He makes his eyes wide and comical, “Or else they’ll kick you out.” He grins to show her that he’s joking, and pushes open the door for the two of them to step in. Willie Cal is uncharacteristically quiet when she and Atticus enter the cool library, but Daveed doesn’t think too much of it.

“Alright,” Daveed says once they’re all in, clapping his hands softly together as not to alert the librarians to any disturbances. The Mockingbirds and Thirteen are crowded around a table, cushy library chairs around them. “Disappearances. Monsters. How ‘bout Atticus and I will look through books, and the girls will tackle newspapers? We can meet back ‘round here in twenty minutes.”

“Don’t see why not,” Willie Cal agrees, hands on her hips, while the other two nod their consent. A thoughtful frown paints her features as she looks around. “If you’ve got anything really good, just come find us. This place ain’t big.”

There are murmurs of assent, and Willie Cal loops her arm through Thirteen’s as they head towards the information desk. The taller girl stiffens initially, but relaxes after a moment and even lets her lopsided smile cross over her face. “I’m good,” Thirteen whispers, as though she’s never really been sure what _good_ is before this moment.

“I’m glad,” says Willie Cal firmly, and approaches the receptionist. “Hello, ma’am,” she says to a bespectacled woman examining files, and continues only when she’s sure she’s gotten the lady’s attention. “My friend and I were wondering if you had any newspaper articles on mysterious disappearances, ‘specially ones in Indiana. And maybe if they had any monsters involved – just theories, o’course, not real monsters. Obviously.”

The lines of the woman’s face soften and she tuts. “With the seven gone missing this morning, it’s no wonder you would want an explanation,” she replies in a tone that somehow seems perpetually stern. “There are always theories, but if you’re looking for something close to home… there’s always The Boy Who Came Back to Life.”

Willie Cal and Thirteen exchange looks. “Back to life?” Willie Cal echoes, curious, as the woman stands and starts to waddle towards the drawers that contained the alphabetised newspapers. “We were looking more for odd sorts of theories, not _fantasy.”_

“Hush,” says the clerk sharply, and Willie Cal’s jaw snaps closed with an almost audible click. She and Thirteen follow the woman as she tugs on the handle of a black drawer and the musty smell of old paper rises comfortingly from its interior. Thirteen tries not to stare too much at this odd device, but even if she does, the woman isn't paying enough attention to the two of them to notice.

Eventually, a clipped copy of _The Boy Who Came Back To Life_ rests in Willie Cal’s hands, and the library assistant lets the two of them be. The article depicts a smiling boy – Will Byers, apparently – on the front, and Willie Cal skims the lines of text as she and Thirteen make their way back to the area with the table and the cushy chairs. “We should call the boys,” Willy Cal suggests, and Thirteen nods in return as the two of them separate. Willie Cal unfolds the article and lays it flat on the table, careful not to crinkle it. “I’ll go find them, then,” she says absently, and makes to stand before Thirteen grabs at her wrist.

“No,” the other girl whispers firmly, fear dancing in her eyes. “Stay. Please.”

Willie Cal hesitates at the intensity of Thirteen’s gaze, and then nods, shrugging. “Yeah. Sure. We can go get them together, come on.” She smiles, and Thirteen’s grip loosens when she rises. “They’ll be with the books.” Willie Cal jerks her head towards the non-fiction section and Thirteen nods in response. Willie Cal’s coming to recognise this as her primary form of communication.

The two girls walk in silence down the carpeted library floor to where dark wooden shelves filled with books rose from the floor. Neither of them realise or acknowledge the entrance of a new visitor to the building. “Pssst – Atticus?” Willie Cal hisses, glancing back as not to bother the librarian. “Daveed? We found something.”

Daveed’s curly head pops up from behind one of the shelves nearby. “Us too – come over.” He holds up a skinny book as though to prove it, and Willie Cal tugs Thirteen in their direction.

“We should get back to the table,” Willie Cal suggests when she comes face to face with the boys. “That way we can get all the information. ‘Sides, we left our article at the place over there anyway…” The others are nodding along when a shadow crosses Atticus’s face, and Daveed is the first to react.

“What’sit, Atticus?” he asks in a low tone, following the other boy’s gaze. “I don't –”

“Please step aside,” says a practised, sugary voice as a dark haired woman steps out of the shadows. Thirteen tenses and flushes herself to Willie Cal’s side, reaching out for the other girl’s wrist. The Mockingbirds stand in dumbstruck horror as they stare at the newcomer. No one had seen her enter, or heard her footsteps nearby.

“Who are you?” Daveed blurts, fingers jittering. There’s no real reason that he should be nervous – none at all, actually, since the lady has only said three words. Instincts tell him to _run,_ and run as fast as he can. Thirteen’s reaction isn't comforting either, and Daveed’s heart has leapt into his throat.

“I don't think you hear me properly,” the woman replies coolly, her dark eyes impenetrable. Daveed realises he doesn't have to know her to trust his own fear. “Step aside. I promise that either you three or the girl will be leaving with me today in some form. I am giving you that choice. Make it well.”

“Jeez, you're a right Disney villain,” Daveed says nervously, and Atticus shoots him a look. He ignored it and juts out his chin, trying for a semblance of bravery. Thirteen is shaking her head wildly. “We’re not going anywhere, and you can bug off, thanks.”

The woman touches two fingers to an earpiece Daveed has just now noticed and slides a hand into her back pocket. “Variable group C1 primed for termination, 013 identified and secure,” she says, almost too quickly for the Mockingbirds to understand. “Enacting protocol.”

No one except Thirteen spots the little device the woman removes from her pocket. No one except Thirteen reacts in time to do anything, and no one except Thirteen understands what the four of them have truly gotten themselves caught up in. When she reacts, she moves _fast,_ and flings her arms out in front of the Mockingbirds.

Time seems to slow down. There’s an odd gust of manufactured wind moving slowly towards the four of them, and Thirteen swipes a hand across the open space ahead of her. Eyes alight, the other three watch as the wave slams into the bookshelf. It’s gone in a split second, absorbed into the pages.

The woman reaches for what can only be a pistol, speaking rapidly in low tones. Thirteen’s eyes are deadly – it is what was so unsettling about her at first glance. Jerking her head to the side, the pistol yanks itself from the woman’s grasp and skitters across the floor. Everything is happening so _fast –_ Willie Cal can hardly keep track of the action until she feels something slip from her own pocket.

It’s a penny. To be precise, it’s her second luckiest penny. Daveed’s eyes are wide, and he has stretched out a hand to tap a nervous rhythm on Atticus’s wrist. Atticus isn’t sure if the other boy is even aware that he’s doing it.

Thirteen has two of Willie Cal’s pennies levitating above her fingers, and blood is starting to flow from her nose as she stares defiantly up at the woman. Somewhere in her bones, Thirteen knows that she _could_ kill the agent who would just have done this to her without a second thought. This lady would have killed her – her alliances – and submitted a mission report. Thirteen _wants_ to kill the woman. Her power hums in every pore of her body, just waiting to be used.

And then she sees it. Sees the way that Daveed has edged closer to Atticus, fearing not only their enemy but Thirteen herself. Sees the way that Willie Cal looks at her, partially in fear and partially in wonderment. Thirteen bites her lip and forces herself to acknowledge the fact that she has already saved the Mockingbirds’ lives. She doesn’t need to kill.

Thirteen thrusts out her hands and drives the coins straight through the flesh of the woman’s shoulders without so much as changing her expression. _This is my compromise,_ she thinks as she watches the woman collapse and blood bubble up. _This is where I draw the line._ A dark exhilaration runs through her, and Thirteen wonders who she would have become if she’d struck to kill instead of just to wound.

Neatly, Thirteen focuses on the copper of the pennies – _just_ the copper, not the blood and flesh of the disgusting, manipulative _creature_ that surrounds it. When the two gleaming orbs emerge, they’re perfectly clean, and land neatly in the palm of Thirteen’s hand.

She wipes away the blood from her nose, identifies the second luckiest penny, and hands it back to Willie Cal.

“Boo Radley,” Willie Cal whispers with an odd sort of reverence. An electric charge runs through the Mockingbirds – without a doubt, the group includes Thirteen now. There are some things that result undoubtedly in friendship, no matter who is involved.

This is one of those things.

The woman from Hawkin’s Lab is still babbling, though, and the four turn around to see her gasping out words into the earpiece. She’s struggling but still kicking, and there’s a good chance that she can still cause some damage. Between the device in one pocket and a pistol in the other, the woman would have been able to take them out easily if Thirteen hadn’t been around to cover their asses.

“Get her out,” Daveed says coldly. It’s the first time he’s presented as anything other than happy-go-lucky, and the result is chilling. “She’s dangerous.”

Atticus takes a deep breath and then says, “I’ll do it.” Even though they’re just talking about knocking out a would-be murderer, Willie Cal jerks in surprise. Atticus is the last person she thought would volunteer for anything involving violence. This day is bringing out sides that none of them knew they had.

“You sure, Atticus?” Willie Cal asks, meeting his eyes. A man of his word, they both know that once he commits, Atticus will go through with anything he’s promised. This is his final chance to let someone else dirty their hands.

Instead, Atticus squares his shoulders and sets his jaw. “Absolutely.” If Atticus Finch is the same on the streets as he is at home, he is certainly the same in his mind. Atticus had felt a strong desire to do _something_ to protect his friends, and if this is it – to erase the fear in Daveed’s eyes, the harshness in the lines of Thirteen’s face – he will do whatever it takes. Willie Cal steps aside, and Atticus brings his boot down on the side of the woman’s face.

It hits the floor with a crack and the Mockingbirds can tell she’s out. Atticus steps back, breathing hard. “We need to find somewhere to put her,” he says quietly. “So whoever the hell she works for can come pick her up. It sounded like she was acting on orders.” What Atticus means is, _I may have knocked her out, but she doesn’t deserve to die._

Thirteen looks at Atticus in a way that seems to peer all the way into his soul, and then she decides that she likes that quality about him. He smiles at her, and she returns it, before Daveed clears his throat. “We _do_ need to put this somewhere, right?” he asks, gesturing at the woman wondering why he picked that moment to interrupt. Obviously Atticus and Thirteen were very happy smiling at each other.

“Yeah,” Willie Cal says, and the other Mockingbirds notice that she’s been keeping to herself. “Someone get the arms, I’ll get the legs, and we’ll need a couple’a people in the middle. And be _quiet,”_ she adds as an afterthought, as though just remembering they’re in a library.

It takes the four of them to put the woman outside in a back alley, using a back door, and Willie Cal alerts everyone that it’s one forty-seven. They only have about a half hour left before they need to go.

The Mockingbirds head back to the table, ignore the bloodstains, and read _The Boy Who Came Back To Life_ in a hushed tone. The only connection it has with Daveed and Atticus’s find _(Conspiracies of Hawkins, Indiana,_ by Rachel Tybernat) is the location. Thirteen taps the name of the town as though she recognises it, but can’t give any more information.

It’s good enough for the Mockingbirds, and they decide to check out a book. Willie Cal scribbles down the name of the policeman involved in the Will Byers investigation and then finds the non-emergency number for the Hawkins’ police station, resolving to call later that night. (Willie Cal was given a bright green phone for her birthday and it sits on her desk, chord spiralling all the way down to the wall.)

The four of them check out of the library at two sixteen, and Thirteen rides on the back of Willie Cal’s bicycle. They’re positive that they’re in the clear when they approach Willie Cal’s street and Atticus’s watch reads two twenty-five, but the universe has other plans. Mrs. Jones stands blocking the doorway as the Mockingbirds ride up to the driveway, Thirteen attempting to hide herself awkwardly behind Willie Cal, and the older woman’s face is ashen.

She holds a walkie talkie in her hands, and with a sinking sense of horror, Daveed reaches down and finds the device still switched on. Abruptly, he realises the button that allows _him_ to send messages to the other one in the set has been pressed down against his side for the entirety of their stay in the library. Everything he’s said or heard has been transmitted back to the Jones household.

“I’d like an explanation,” Mrs. Jones says coolly, raising the walkie talkie high enough for everyone to see. Daveed cringes as the others realise the terrible mistake he’s made. Mrs. Jones’s tone makes it clear that she _will_ have her way, no matter what.

Thirteen stops hiding and lets her limbs unfold, shaved head rising from behind Willie Cal’s dreadlocks. “Shit,” she whispers, and as they stare at the scene ahead of them, the other Mockingbirds wholeheartedly agree.

They’ve almost gotten killed, and this isn’t even the worst thing that’s happened to them all day.

* * *

 

  _Hawkins’ Lab, Hawkins, Indiana – 23 rd February 1984_

Variable group C1 still active and present. Skill set accessed in 013 at 1337 against N. Butler. Collateral damage: one (1) casualty due to internal bleeding. Family of N. Butler has received reimbursement.

REPORT SUBMITTED B. Wallace, 23/2/84, 1545

REPORT AUTHORISED J. Lawson, scientific next-of-kin to M. Brenner, 23/2/84, 1552

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always lovely - if there's anything you think this thing should have, is lacking, or maybe even does well, leave it below to soothe my stress about posting on this site and introducing this concept (what even am I doing?). Maybe bribery with cookies would work? ;p
> 
> (Side note: Clarity, Indiana does not exist, because Hawkins, Indiana, does not exist. For Clarity to be anywhere near Hawkins, it also cannot exist, because Hawkins is given no frame of reference.)


End file.
